


Astride

by Davechicken



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, PWP, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Dorian rather likes it when Bull uses his horns. And hands. And...
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79





	Astride

It turns out there are advantages to being - ah - romantically involved with the Iron Bull. Several, if he’s honest, but right now Dorian can only truly focus on the two broad, sturdy horns that crown his lover’s head.

Because they are… well. Rather perfectly placed. At first he’d thought they would be a terrible nuisance, even if Bull had clearly lived his whole life with them without an issue. But Dorian hadn’t, and he’d entertained ridiculous problems, mostly when he was trying to deny that a very real and primal part of him was fascinated by them. 

But now he’s a convert. A complete and utter horn fan.

It turns out that when Dorian lies on his back, the Bull can grunt his way below his thighs, and Dorian’s legs can part, and drape over the spread of them. He can brace over the top of them, and arch and buck and do anything he needs, while his lover uses his mouth to draw obscenities from his lips. 

Shaking hands grip the upturned tips, and his spine doubles over as he rides the other man’s sturdy chin and jaw, fighting the whimpers and pleas he wants to let bubble out. The stubble scratches between his thighs, at the sensitive skin of his rump, and he digs his nails in to express his enjoyment and annoyance in one. 

Fuck. Those lips so thick and smart, so obviously curling into a smile behind his balls. Nuzzling under the sway of them, while his cock waves desperately for attention. Dorian wants to touch it, to stroke himself roughly to completion, but he’s not supposed to. 

He’s supposed to let Bull have his way with him. Let him ravish his body and overwhelm him with pleasure. And let it take time…

Time! _Vishante kaffas!_ Time! Dorian would haste the fucker if he could. They can do this over and over, why do they need to draw it out? Why must the brute torment him so, with such exquisite pacing? Why must he go so slowly that Dorian’s eyes roll up into his skull, looking for some hidden answer buried deep within his own body?

The mage yanks harder, with both legs and hands, but Bull is an immovable object, and Dorian is simply a cantankerous force. Smiling. Smiling, bastard lips and warm breath and the vaguest of tugs at his heavy balls, then a nose pushes below them and they fall astride, like saddle-bags on a fucking horse. 

Ride the Bull indeed, he thinks, just as there’s a soft, wet presence right where he also wants attention. Oh, sweet Andraste’s bastard children! Dorian kicks down with a heel, smashing into a shoulder so meaty as to bounce it off again, as he feels the flat presence start to vibrate, just over his damn hole. 

Bull does not listen to pleas. Or threats. Or mixed, threatening pleas. He does not sway, and so Dorian is forced to call upon any ancestor who hasn’t yet disowned him to give him the strength to survive what his body is very clearly capable of withstanding, if his mind may not be.

Tongue. Pressed to his entrance. Rising and rippling like his own spine echoes, slurping and noisy and hot and wet. His balls decide to rebel, both tipping over one side of that nose, and Dorian desperately tries to grind them in place for more pressure, keening when it doesn’t work and his dick is left bobbing with nothing but the cool, evening air to caress it. 

“Bull!”

Bull hums in response, his large hands curled around his waist, holding him where he wants him. Split open like and offering, thrown over the horns of his conqueror. He’s utterly helpless, just as Bull said he would be, and his belly pulls all the way in to protest how good it feels. 

The tongue turns, no longer a sea in tidal sway, and more a tributary river, or some angry waterfall. It’s probing, and firmed, and poking just at one side of his hole, and stretching him inexorably wider. Wider. So wide the world could look right inside and see how broken Dorian is, how… needy. Hungry. Utterly, utterly lost. 

How much he needs everything Bull will give him, and is terrified he’ll do something to make him stop. 

Licks that turn to whorls, that leave Dorian’s calves twitching and aching from the counter-point. Make his lower back seize for a moment, until kindly fingers push into knots of tension and leave him keening like the wind through the trees. 

Bull’s tongue thickens to a rod, bigger than many a manhood Dorian has taken, and it forces past the tight, twitching ring. His body works against the intrusion, but not to reject it, just to luxuriate in it. All the nerves from below his waist shoot full of power like magic, and the more he clutches and pushes back, the more Bull chuckles, beard-chafingly, and redoubles his efforts. 

It’s. It’s. So insanely good. Bull has such control over his tongue, and such intimate knowledge of how Dorian likes to be touched, that the mage is a wreck, washed up on the beachwood of those twin horns. Writhing and grinding, and barely able to recognise anything with his eyes. All he knows is the warm touch to his body, the sure power of his brow, and the fabric under his shoulders. The scent of sweat and need, and the emotion he swears he can almost feel pouring from the other man. 

Bull does these things for him. Sure, it’s because they do things for each other, but it’s more than that. The delicate undoing of him, from button and buckle, down to his every last inch of skin… oh, it’s - it’s - his mind stops working as the swirl and thrust makes his juddering irregular, his hands tugging and demanding, begging… more, oh fuck, more, more!

There’s a thick, spit-slick finger below the tongue, bearing into him. It rolls above and below, and Dorian is incoherent from the mixed hard and soft sensation. It fucks into him, teasing his rim as it moves, and then he’s pushing up and down and against something spongy and miraculous and yes that’s it, that’s it, don’t stop don’t stop don’t--

Bull has a finger and thumb inside, pinching and twisting, and Dorian is pretty sure he’s done something he shouldn’t have, because magic flares out beyond of him, and he’s aware that his balls are emptying, his cock shooting out the salty load all over his belly and anywhere it can reach to paint. It’s too much, too much, nothing to touch his shaft, nothing to seal the deal, nothing to let him truly feel it’s closed… the fingers and tongue keep moving, and he’s wrung out, wrung dry, and it’s nearly hurting, now, but his body doesn’t know how to stop feeling.

Dorian coasts over the touches, eyes damp, brow slick, balls bouncing against his nose. He whines when the fingers slowly retreat, his hole clenching and his toes curling. The tongue leaves, too, and he’s empty and bereft, begging for it not to stop, even though it’s already too much. 

Bull lifts his legs below the knees, but he doesn’t lower them. He keeps pushing, until the mage is bent helplessly in half. He’d comply with anything right now, his mind gone on the overwhelming heat of sensation and emotion. 

Dorian’s arms drape over Bull’s broad shoulders, barely holding on. He’s still sure each beat of his heart is echoed down to the soles of his feet, and the thrust up and in is just another crest of the wave he’s gliding on. He buries his face into Bull’s thick neck, and breathes in salt and musk and lust. Takes the harsh, loving shunts as his beloved couples him into the bed. 

It’s good. So good. The horns that threaten to puncture the pillows on either side of Dorian’s head. The whispered promises that follow grunts, and the hands that keep him in place as he chases his bliss. 

When he comes, the Iron Bull doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t even breathe, for a long moment. He seems to revere the moment, and Dorian stops breathing, too, to concentrate on the gushing flood that stretches him out, and makes his belly swell. His own balls are empty, but the stimulus of his lover’s twitching, spilling cock has fresh sparks dizzy his head and waver his grip on reality. He purrs at the way their bodies fit, at the hands that ease his legs back down, and settle them into some approximation of comfort. 

Full. Stretched. Complete. Drained. Blissed. 

He feels kisses across his brow, and he doesn’t mind where else those lips have been. Feels the arms that wrap him up, and his own reach out tiredly, seeking skin, and comfort, and offering both. 

Bull murmurs soft words, gentle terms of endearment, and Dorian drifts into the space between here and the Fade, his mind completely at ease.


End file.
